Silent Mind
by Predominantly Normal
Summary: Craig can't love. It's beyond his ability to show remorse, regret, or emotion. Emotion is Weakness. And Weakness is suicide. He doesn't care about anyone, not his father, not the pathetic little town he's been forced to live in. That is, until he meets a Mute Schizophrenic boy named Tweek. But Tweek has a secret; Nobody can hear him when he speaks. Except Craig. VERY LONG HITUAS
1. You're a Freak

**_I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK. _**

XXX

He was a freak. And I hated him because of it. As soon as I laid my eyes on his pathetic face, I knew I was in for a ride. Except, maybe I didn't expect it to be such a rollercoaster. Maybe I didn't expect to have such a fun ride.

It was a damn cold Saturday. And I mean _damn_ cold. My arms were pressed firmly to my body and my face felt frozen. I shuffled through the foot-high snow bitterly. How does my father live with this? I growled angrily, kicking a snow pile out of my way before returning onto the path. If I didn't have to move here, I might've enjoyed the snow. We never get snow from where I come; California.

From a glance, no one'd guess I was from California. I had jet black hair; ebony, my mom once said. My actual face wasn't in a quirky smile that half of the douchebags in California wore. Actually, I can't remember the last time I smiled. I had a lean, almost lanky figure, much par to the boys who took steroids back home.

I was so caught up in myself, that I didn't notice the large building looming over me. Wow. That sounds really narcissistic. Anyways, I'm a little self centered, so what? Okay, maybe I'm a lot self centered. I force myself to walk in the white hospital building and make my way to old dad's office.

I walk down the eerily quiet sterile halls, not daring to look in the glass that divides me from them. The freaks. Let me elaborate. See, my dad doesn't work in a regular hospital. He works in a Nut House. Or a Mental Institution, whatever you prefer to call it. My sneakers squeak on the granite linoleum floors as I grudgingly walk to my father's office.

Once I'm in my father's office, I take a glance around. It's completely white, the pure color only marred by pictures and notes. On closer inspection, one can easily tell that none of the pictures include me. Whatever, I'm fine with it. My dad walks in behind me, a fake smile plastered across his heavy-set face. Man, what I'd do to smack that grin clear off.

"Hey, Craig! How's my little champ doing?" He asks me with a grin.

I scowl, my forehead crumpling together angrily. "Screw you." I say, giving him the middle finger.

His smile instantly fades and he sighs. "Craig, you're never going to forgive me, huh?" He snorts in discomfort.

"Don't count on it, sir." I reply.

"I can't understand what I even d-" He's cut off when I whirl around to glare at him, my icy blue eyes boring into his.

"Drop it. Now." I hiss.

Dad clenched his jaw and glares at me. After a huff of annoyance, he furrows his brow. "Okay, fine." He mutters. "I just don't see why you're-"

I give him another glare.

"Okay, fine Craig. If you're so angered, perhaps you should cool off in the Cell?" My dad threatens, his voice is dull and I'm fighting the urge to make him shut up.

"Screw the Cell." I growl back.

The Cell is a set of padded rooms in the downstairs wing. They're completely white and they have nothing but firm pads. Oh yeah, and cameras. And tranquilizer darts (_Which, by the way, hurt like Hell)_. I've actually been submitted to the room on several occasions. I'm no psycho lunatic like the people that stay here, it was a punishment from my father for talking back. You know, most parents usually, oh, I don't know... Yell at their kids or take away some rights. My dad? No he likes to take out all the stops. He locks me in a Cell, where I have to stay until he either has to leave, or remembers I actually exist. The latter takes longer.

"Craig, you're never going to get it. I do the things I do for good reasons." He pleads. His face is forlorn and burdened, and there's an honest sincerity behind his voice, as if he actually believes this will help me in the long run. I almost want to believe the bastard. Almost.

I set my jaw and sit down on a couch placed near the left of the room. I give good old dad a brooding glare before taking out my iPod and blasting music through the earbuds so I don't have to hear his annoyed grunts. After so long, dad rips the earbuds out of my ears and glares at me with malice.

"Craig. You're so mute, I swear. Listen, there's this boy I've been working with. His name is Tweek and-" I cut of dad again.

"Tweek? The Hell kind of name is that?" I hiss.

"The kind of name that perfectly suits him." Dad shrugs.

"Fits him? What kind of freak is he?" I nearly scream.

"He's schizophrenic." Dad states coldly, as if he couldn't care less. "He hasn't talked to anyone for the last three years. I figured you might be able to get something out of him. He's the youngest kid here." Dad explains.

My face twists in disgust. They want me to talk to him? I'd never admit it, but the people here; they scare me. Some of them stare into space, others just scream incoherent wails of pain. It's a shame they don't just let them go. These people; they remind me of the kind of people who would kill someone in their sleep.

My wonderful dad; it's like he wants me to become psycho. He brought me here when I was four. Four years old, barely old enough to talk correctly, and he smack put me in a room with a person who had spilt personality disorder. Do you know how terrifying that is? To see someone in pure agony scream into your face one moment, then just smile and ask you how your day was? I cried for the first and only time in my entire life.

"I don't want to." I look at him boldly.

"Son..." He stares at me with a false smile. "Do you want to spend some time with Tweek, or shall you be put in the Cell, where bad boys go?" He cooed.

I twisted my face in rage. "Fine." I hiss through grit teeth.

My dad grabs my arm, harshly grasping onto my skin. It may look like he's protecting me, but his hand squeezes my arm painfully, and his nails bite into my soft flesh. I blink away a painful cry and instead grit my teeth. Weakness is emotion, emotion is weakness. And showing weakness too my father is suicide.

My father drags me through the halls, talking to me soothingly.

"Really, Craig. Tweek's quite interesting." Dad says cheerfully.

_Interesting_? I stifle a growl and walk along with him, nearly jogging to keep up with his quick pace.

"Oh, yes father." I brood. "That's so interesting. Tell me more."

Dad smiles and I can tell he either is thick as a board, or he's pretending not to hear the sarcastic tone I'm giving off.

"Oh, I'm so happy that you're finally listening." He grins crudely. "Tweek..." He begins rambling on how screwed up this boy is, and I'm too afraid to listen. If he's as crazy as the rest of them... Well, let's say he's going to get some pepper in the face.

Dad keeps pulling me along the halls until we finally stop at cell B-4. The door is covered with a clean white plaster, but if you look closely enough, you can see evident marks where someone was clawing for their lives. Yeah, screw acting brave. I'm pretty freakin scared.

"Dad do I have to?" I ask.

"Yes." Dad unlocks the room and shoved me inside. After I stumble in, I watch as dad slams the door and locks it. I yell and bang on the wooden entrance. I know there's no use to it, though.

I give one last agitated shout and turn around to look at the person who's been deathly silent the whole time.

He looks about my age, thirteen-ish. He has hair that brings a new use to the word 'Messy'. It's blonde, but it looks pale gold in the artificial lighting. Clumps of it are scrunched up around his head and some of it is even on the floor. His face, heck, his whole body is pale as a sheet and he's shivering. The white uniform looks loose on his bone-thin frame. For a second, I'm actually afraid that he's dead.

But then he looks at me. The feeling was like no other. Electricity scorched my body, making me freeze. His eyes... They were so..._ Mesmerizing. _Calling them hazel or turquoise would be a severe understatement. They were light brown, with a green rim and the colors mashed together like some sort of brew. But the thing that stood out the most was the look his eyes gave me. Despite his physical condition, his eyes glared at me like he was ready to fight a war. I found myself unable to step forward.

"-Arg-" he shudders, his body going into several convulsions before looking back at me.

"Um- hi. My dad told me that you were-erm- Tweek." I say, nervously approaching him.

His eyes dart around and then he lets out a squeak before calming down again. But he didn't stop shaking. And he didn't answer me.

"That's right you're... Uh... Mute." I say sheepishly. "And that makes me feel like a dumbass." I scowl.

Tweek shudders again, this time pointing a bony finger at his face. What? Did he not understand I was talking to him?

"Yes, I'm talking to you." I hiss.

Tweek frowns and shakes his head. He looks away from me and mouths something that I barely catch. "_They're screwing with me again_."

I've always been on a short temper to begin with, but this kid is tugging at the strings.

"Okay." I growl, "Do you want to say anything?"

Tweek glares at me and then goes into another spasm, lurching forward. After a few convulsions, he's back on the bed rest. Nonetheless, he still glares at me like I'm the one who should be put in a hospital bed.

I finally lose it. "You're a _freak_." I state bluntly.

"You think I don't know that?" His voice shocks me. It's high pitched, but not painful, and it's unmistakably clear. He says it so quietly, though, I'm not even sure if he's actually speaking.

I look at him again. This time, out of curiosity.

"You spoke." I say, furrowing my brow.

He looks at me again, this time, I can tell he has no intentions to speak. He frowns and shrugs. I hate him. His attitude, his glare, and most of all, his voice. He reminds me of... _Myself_.

I watch as he turns away towards the other wall, covering his face with his thin blankets. Apparently, he doesn't want to speak to me. That's fine, I don't want to talk to him either. I glance at him before turning away and glancing at the door, waiting for my father to open it. And once he does, I don't know if I want to leave... Yet.

XXX

**_New story Idea that doesn't suck! I can't help it, Creek is just to epically adorable. Anyhow, I got this idea when my friend was talking about a Fanfiction she read called 'Splitting of the Mind'. I didn't read it yet, but I do entertain the idea of Tweekie in a mental hospital. Don't look at your screen like that; you know it's crossed your mind at least once. (Unless you've never heard of South Park, in which case, I don't know why you're reading this.) Anyways, please Review! _**


	2. Inspection of The Inner Iris (REVISION)

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

* * *

My dad stands at the doorway. He's too tall to properly fit, so he's ducking under. I sigh.

"Craig," he says in a stern voice, "it's time to go."

I oblige. I know, Tweek's all weird and interesting or whatever, but honestly? He's no different from the rest of the freaks besides his painfully arrogant attitude. And besides that, I'm starting to feel like my dad, and if anything, I do NOT want to be like ol' dad. I shove past him and we walk out.

"Tweek likes you, Craig." Dad says, although I know he doesn't care.

"Did you see him? He hates me, and I hate him." I reply, crossing my arms over my shoulders and trying to keep up with my father's pace.

"You may say that, Craig, but that boy hasn't even given the nurses a glance. He was confused at the least." Dad replies cheerfully.

I scowl. It's not like it's a secret that dad keeps tabs on every inmate. He has Hi-Def cameras along with sound equipment too. It's like he's trying to find something for one of those creepy 'TLC' shows. 'The Learning Channel' my ass. There's more to learn about than how screwed up people can be. I mean really, if you were really and truly insane, would you want to be degraded on television? I think not. At least, not me.

"This has to do with me because...?" I ask harshly. Dad appears taken aback, but he doesn't make any big show of it.

"Because, Craig. You could further our investigation on boys like Tweek." Dad explains, like it's common knowledge. "We could use you-"

"Precisely." I snap, "You want to use _ME_. I don't want to be in this freak show, and I'm not going to be associated with it, so please do me a favor and leave me alone." I flip my father off.

"Can you at least act like you care?" Dad sighs.

"No." I grunt.

Dad and I travel back home, the trip taking an unreasonably long time while dad rambles on about modern psychology. Really, if I needed some old guy to bother me all day with trivial information, I'd still be at school. I'd be in a desk, doing pre-algebra. Why do algebra anyhow? There's no reason. I wonder if the mental institution kids learn about school stuff? I don't remember any books or anything in Tweek's room. Maybe it's just 'cause Tweek's so screwed up.

"Craig, tomorrow's your first day of school. Don't stay up, got it?" Dad asks as we pull into the driveway.

I grunt in agreement, not willing to do anything that requires more effort than that. Damn, I'm lazy. I go to open the car door, but debate against it because of how nice and warm it is inside the vehicle. Scratch that, I'm really lazy. I walk inside our house. It's well-built and everything, it just doesn't feel like a... _Home._ Yeah, that's right.

The walls, carpeting, hell, even the furniture is pure white. There's not even a stain on the perfectly white floors, nor a picture on the perfectly white walls. I feel like I'm back at the Nut House. Dad looks perfectly content as he walks over to a coat rack. A _coat rack._ God damn, does he ever leave work?

I sigh and walk upstairs. My new room is disgustingly white. White mattress white walls, and white sets of clothes to match. What, does he want me to look like a Mormon or something? Does he want me to become Jeff the Killer? If I do remember correctly, the story said he had a white sweater when he got in that fight and- never mind, it scares me too much to think about. Nevertheless, I still pull on a white hoodie and glance around. My god, how does one live here? It's like a less boring version of The Cell. And the Cell is really, really, boring. I was so bored that I began counting in two's. How terrifyingly boring was that little fiasco? I'll give you a hint; I made it to 3456. And yes, I'm very aware of the little paradox there.

I turn over and scowl.

"2,4,6,8,10,12,14,16..." I begin.

"17- oh crap!" I furrow my brow. The image of Tweek appears in my head at a very unwanted time. Let me try this again.

"2,4,6" another still-frame of Tweek stares at me from the back at my dumb mind. "35."

This happens until the highest I reach without a picture of Tweek screwing it up is forty-eight. I throw off my hat and run my hands through my hair, long fingers transversing through the ebony jungle. When dad is annoyed, he usually circles his temples. I like rubbing my hair, for some odd reason. It's just... My hair is always so smooth it's almost like petting a goth bunny. With perfectly straightened long almost-Justin-Beiber-fur.

I clamber back down the stairs, hat still off, and into the kitchen. Hell, the only thing in this house that isn't pure white is the kitchen. That's still only because my father is a terrible cook, but whatever. It helps me from going COMPLETELY insane. Dad is sitting in one of the white chairs drinking some weird mix of maple syrup, coffee, and... Is that ketchup I see on the counter?

I shrug, dad is batty anyways. I take the painfully long-ish walk from my content little staircase to my dad's kitchen. I trot over to the fridge and gingerly pull it open, only to be found on the ground, retching in horror, point five seconds later.

"Holy _shit_, dad! What died in there?!" My hand is clamped over my nose as I make a desperate attempt to re-close the gates to the underworld.

"Our dinner, Craig." Dad says, slightly annoyed.

Once the Fridge to Hell is closed up, all is well. Or as well enough as it can get considering that's my dinner. Please, god, make my stomach strong, because I forgot to bring the Macaroni Easy Mac's.

"Dad... I don't wanna eat that." I groan, clutching my stomach for added effect.

"Too bad, Craigy Boy." Dad huffs. I take in a hitched breath before I tentatively pull my hand away from my nose. My poor, poor, nose...

"Jesus Christ, dad! Did you smell that? What is it anyways?" I scowl slightly, not even enough for my eyebrows to touch.

"It's pot roast." Dad says nonchalantly. I raise one eyebrow. "The Mexican style." He admits.

"Dad... I'm allergic to Mexicans..." I whine. If I have to resort to begging on my hands and knees, I will.

"Nonsense, Craig." Dad says. I scowl at him and flip him off before going into the cold outdoors. Oh man, dad'd sure give Gordan Ramsay a heart attack.

Brisk fall snow bites at my face relentlessly. White snow. The wind whips my hair around, making me wish I'd brought my hat. Where am I going, exactly? I don't know myself. I just start walking, down south to one of the rich people houses.

"Hey, wait up, Fatass!" I hear the yell behind me and I have just enough time to run out of the way before I get charged by a four-hundred pound thirteen year old. Two boys are following behind him, one with a green hat and one with a blue hat.

"Sorry!" Green hat says as he passes me. Blue hat isn't so lucky. I grab him by his collar and look at him, my eyes trailing him and instinctively scrutinizing every flaw.

Blue hat looks quite a bit like me. One wouldn't call his hair ebony as they would raven, and he's got quite a few more pounds to his husky frame. His blue eyes dart back and forth, unable to make contact.

"Who are you?" He finally looks me in the eye.

"Craig Tucker." I respond, still looking him down.

"Dude, you are really creeping me out." He says, scrunching his nose at my analysis of his outer shell.

"What... What are you doing." It's less of a question and more of a demand with the tone I'm using.

"You aren't my dad." Blue Hat's eyes are calm yet fierce, although they're rather intriguing, they pale in comparison to Tweek's. I stare at him, looking into his eyes this time. There's a darker portion inside his iris's.

"Your dad must not care about you if I sound like him." I reply coldly. I don't care about this kid, nor any of his problems. I just instinctively point out every hidden detail, meticulously mapping out secrets, lies, vulnerabilities.

"He-He does care!" Blue Hat hisses. His eyes are clouded though, so I must've struck a nerve.

"Stan, is this kid giving you trouble?" Green Hat asks, his voice wavering only slightly.

"No. I'm fine, Kyle." Blue Hat, or rather, Stan, doesn't break eye contact.

Green Hat, Kyle, glares at me from a distance. "Okay, Stan. If you say so."

Stan returns his attention to me once more. "What do you know about my father, huh?"

I shrug. I don't know anything, nothing at all besides the fact that I must've struck a nerve.

"You did protest somewhat, so I'll assume your dad does care enough, but you don't have him when he's needed." I say, staring into blue orbs of fear. I think I've done much more than strike a nerve. I struck his memory.

"You... How..." I let Stan go and he tumbles backwards in an almost trance-like state. Kyle races forward and catches him just as he falls.

"What did you do to him?" Kyle looks at me with anger, but he doesn't fool me. His voice is almost frosted completely with fear and uncertainty. I shrug.

"Nothing, Kyle." I reply.

Kyle's eyes stare at me. They're green, almost borderline neon. "This doesn't look like nothing, asshat!" He hisses, pointing to Stan.

The poor Blue-Hatted boy is staring through space like some sort of delusional person. And trust me when I say I know exactly what that's like. His once sharp crystal-colored eyes are now misty. His face is pale and he's shaking. Jesus, I didn't mean to shake him up this much. That's only something my dad would do.

_Right?_

* * *

**_Jesus, why did I make Craig such a creep? Oh yeah, because he IS one. Also, Jeff the F-ing Killer is the scariest thing ever. Especially to a paranoid, kid who drinks constant Red Bull. Please Review, although I had to completely re-do this damn chapter..._**


	3. Cracked Hope

**I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK**

* * *

"Trust me, Kyle. He's fine." I said, pivoting on one foot.

"He doesn't look fine." Kyle pointed to Stan, who was shaking himself awake.

"I'm okay. I was just... Startled." Stan replied, his husky voice wavering.

Kyle shot him a nervous glance before sighing in relief. The green-hatted boy looked at me in confusion.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" He asked, eyeing me like a word search.

I shifted uncomfortably. It's not like I go around and boast that I spend my weekends with Crack addicts and Screw balls. It's also not my favorite subject when someone brings up the darker side of psychological terms. The kind that can train a seven year old to murder his own parents. The thing about the human psyche; it can be molded into absolutely anything. No matter the age or mental state. Someone like my dad, given enough time, can transform a level-headed scholar into a deranged serial killer. I also entertain the thought that I am nothing like him and would never use my knowledge to unnerve or weaken someone. Well, I guess you can throw that idea out of the four-story window.

"I... I... Uh-"

"Oh wait, you're that crazy psychologist guy's son, aren't you?" Kyle's eyes are bright, like the thought of answering something correctly excites him.

"He's not crazy. He's just... _Unconventional_." I reply, keeping my voice from wavering.

"Doesn't he work at the Nut House?" Stan questions, his face drawn into a confused scowl.

"Mental Hospital." I grit my teeth.

"Huh. Hey, wouldn't it be so cool if we got to go on a field trip there?" Kyle looked at what I assumed was his close friend.

"I know, right? All the twitchy, incoherent, insane, freaks would probably be fun to look at." Stan muses.

Something snapped. Now I have no clue what, but it did. Twitchy. Incoherent. Freaks. A still shot of Tweek imprinted itself on my head, making my anger rise. Not so long ago, I would've just grunted and told them that the people there would terrify them or something. Now? I probably made a little bit more of a scene.

"Don't you dare say anything about those people. As different as they might be, they're still human." I hiss, taking the liberty to prod Kyle's chest with my index finger. "And you wanna know what? Those people face Hell every day. Hell. I will gladly take you there to show you how much _shit_ they go through."

Kyle reels back, holding his hands up in a submissive form. "Okay, then. Take us. Right now."

I growl. Something about this kid really pisses me off. He has a know-it-all attitude, a painfully high pitched voice, a sharp, regal demeanor, and most annoying was the look in his eyes. They shone with pride, making even me feel weak. It's then I realize something.

I'm not the only one who can toy with emotions. Losing my temper; even if it's not exactly an emotion one would call 'Open', it's still vulnerable all the same. Intentionally or unintentionally, this kid seems to have a knack for pissing people off. And I am NOT going to be goaded in by such an... Amateur. I give a stoic smile and pivot so my back is facing the two.

"How about... No." I give a more 'Craig-Like' reply.

Walking away, I give a backwards glance at Kyle. His once calm face is now pulled into an ugly scowl, and his hair is untidily finding it's way out of his green ushanka. Stan looks content, settling his hand on Kyle's shoulder and giving the thin boy a few comforting whispers before he lets go. Kyle sighs and shoots me one last angry glare; to which he got the middle finger.

"Love you too." Stan says sarcastically.

I give him a smirk and walk off, feeling just a little better than earlier.

* * *

Wow. I glance around. Somehow, a frame or so of memory just got put on fast forward. Isn't it weird how that works? They say a watched pot never boils. Maybe I should watch the damn pot more often. Or smoke it. Either way, somehow, last night and today decided to do a NASCAR victory lap. Because, currently, I'm in St. Bards Hospital for the Mentally ill. Dad taught me about memory spasms before. Too bad he decided to tell me when I was six. Dad demanded I go to the hospital straight after school, and just to prove a point, he got me out of any homework by threatening the principal.

His threat was to register the lady's son, Bradley, into the hospital. Talk about harsh.

I let out a huff, signifying that I really don't want to be in this place. I wish those were my thoughts, at least. Something here draws me into it, like a psychopathic, freaky, hypnotic, circus. I don't want to be here because it freaks me out, yet, I can't seem to tear away my eyes. I snatch my hat off my head and crumple it up in my palms, going over the rough wool outside.

"Come on, Craig." Dad coaxes, snatching my arm and walking me into room B-4. "We can't keep Tweek waiting."

"We can't?" I press my luck.

"No." Dad opens the thick plaster door and shoves me inside.

I whirl around and (calmly) flip him off with a stoic glare. Too bad he closed the door in my face before he could get the message. I twist back around and find a seat next to Tweek's bedside. His face brightens a bit at my entrance, but not much; like, endless void bright to dark closet bright. I scowl at him bluntly and show him my middle finger.

"How's it going, Twitch?" I ask casually, inspecting the blond mess on top of his head.

Tweek nods slowly and points to his left hand. I stand up and lean over him to look, only to see the beautiful view of a crude, iron, handcuff connecting Tweek's hand to a wall post nearby.

"That sucks." I say in monotone. Tweek closes his eyes and nods, silently agreeing.

Pity, I like his eyes. Tweek yanks his arm up and abruptly stops after his chain pulls taut, stopping right at his stomach.

"Why are you chained like a dog?" I ask, my eyebrows touching in an obviously angry scowl.

OLD me would've just grunted and sat back down, no more words said. But apparently, old me hasn't shown his asshole face in quite a while. Maybe it's because I moved to this Hick town. The simpletons here are trying to convert me to their dumbass ways. Oh God, please don't let that be happening...

Tweek looks at me with confusion. His eyes are clouded with what is either anxiety, or excitement. Let's hope it isn't the latter. He quickly shakes it off in a round of spastic twitching before giving me a crooked smile and mouthing: _"I tried running away." _

I raise my eyebrows, impressed. Not to many people like to cross my father. Or the evil nurses who are out for child souls to feast on. Tweek of all people; I didn't even suspect he knew how to walk. And yet, there he was, handcuff and everything.

"My dad doesn't really..." '_Care about anyone's well being.'_ I think harshly, imagining how many times he'd been selfish. I raise my hand and begin speaking again, but before I even let a word out of my mouth, Tweek shrugs.

"He doesn't, does he?" Tweek spoke. Let me re-say that. Tweek. _Spoke_. Even if it sounded like he was moreover talking to himself than to me.

"You can speak." I frown, the corners of my mouth tilting downward. Somehow, I completely forgot about the fact that he knew what I was about to say before I mouthed a word.

Tweek shot his head around to look at me, his eyes flashing me an astonished look. The blonde haired boy's eyes send another shock wave through me, and I shudder uncontrollably as a painfully scary bout of emotions pass through my head; Fear, Shock, Uncertainty, Sorrow, and the worst one: _Hope_.

Hope is the most vulnerable emotion, because it can't be rationalized. No one can stop it, and once it's there, it's there forever. I hate this. This- feeling. I hate feeling weak, I hate feeling like someone has my mental state in the balance with such a petty idea. That's why I stopped hoping. I quit wistfully hoping that I'd become happy, that mom and dad'd get back together, that my sister and I wouldn't be separated. I blocked all those thoughts from my mind. But, somehow, this freak brought it back out. By LOOKING at me nonetheless.

And Hell, was I pissed.

"You're a freak!" I hiss. I squeeze my eyes shut, and a place my hands on my head, trying to block out the flooding emotions. "Freak, freak, _freak_!" I pull my eyes even tighter, my hands clutching my ebony hair.

Then he set it off. A rocket with a long fuse and three tons of TNT right next to it. I broke down, straggled sobs and whimpers escaping me, like someone got a bottle of baking soda and poured in vinegar, shut the lid, and waited for it to blow. A wet stream of tears found their way out of my tightly closed eyes, slipping down my cheeks and forming a puddle on my jacket sleeves. I quickly turn away, not wishing for the twitchy boy to even see me as I cracked. I shake with uncontrollable convulsions, racking at my body until I could pick myself up. Slowly, I begin to compose myself, my eyes opening and my stoic face re-appearing. I stop shaking and take in a breath, so fast it hurt my lungs.

_I hate it. _I hate the fact that Tweek made my emotions spill. I hate that I showed such weakness around him. I hate that he didn't laugh at me. I hate that he instead gave me a reassuring smile. I hate that he turned around and pretended to fall asleep for my sake.

And most of all, I hate that all he had to do was place a hand on my shoulder for me to break.

* * *

**_Craig shows emotion, call the presses! No, but really. I actually had fun writing this chapter. (As twisted and creepy that might be.) I like to toy around with the idea of Tweek and Craig sharing a sort of 'Empathy Link'. _**

**_REVIEW, Please. Literally. I'm dying over here. _**


	4. The Odd Name of Tokey Black

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

* * *

_"No!" I shouted, my hands pressed on a counter. "They can't do this!" _

_My mother gave me a sad look, ruffling my hair soothingly. I scowled and smacked my mother's hand off of me. _

_"Get. Out." I hissed sharply, keeping my head down. _

_My mother scurried in retreat, casting me one last look as she left the kitchen. Mom always had the most beautiful royal blue eyes, much par to my icy gray ones. I wasn't going to cry, though. I had to be strong. For me, for my mother, and mostly for Ruby. I heard the soft tapping of feet approaching me and I picked up my head, my lips drawn into a snarl. _

_"Craig..." My younger sister looked back at me. "I'll miss you." _

_I took in a sharp inhale, forcing myself not to look at her. Kneeling down, I pulled her into a hug. Ruby's arms tightened around my neck, and I rubbed her back softly. _

_"I'll miss you, too." I said with a pathetically fake smile. _

_I watched solemnly as wet streams found their way from Ruby's eyes, forming a small pile on the ground. "Hey," I whispered, flicking a trail of tears from her eye, "Don't cry." _

_Ruby blinked twice, stopping the tears from her eyes. "Okay." She said, clutching my arm. _

_Now, I've never grown to like singing. It actually was something I hated, due to the release of emotions in the lyrics. But there were exceptions. There were always exceptions when it came to Ruby. And that's how I liked it._

_" Now hush little baby don't you cry, everything's gonna be alright. _

_I already told you, baby, it's okay, I'm gonna hold you through the night._

_Now if that birdie don't sing and that ring don't shine, I'm gonna break that birdie's neck. I'll go back to the jeweler, I'm gonna sue her, and for every care in the world, say: "F with that." "_

_That made Ruby smile. She grinned and laughed a bit. "Thanks, Craig." She said, petting my goth-bunny hair. _

_I looked down, letting her hand transverse my hair, enjoying the moment. When I glanced back up, in Ruby's place, was Tweek. _

_"Thank you so much." _

XXXXX

My head shoots up, a cold trail of sweat lines my forehead. I take in a breath and place my hand on my forehead. Am I sick? I glance at my alarm clock, '3;04'. With a groan, I settle back on my mattress, trying to think clearly. Sadly, that was a more difficult task than I gave credit for. Fuzzy images fly into my mind, like a poor quality television.

By time I get any sleep, it is nearly four. My alarm clock gives off annoying waves of static music, Justin Beiber to be exact. I let out a straggled grumble before I clamp my hand over the top button, temporarily shutting off my alarm until the next morning. I yank off my covers and pick myself up, inspecting my face in the mirror that sits adjacent to my bed.

And Hell, do I look sick.

My thin face looks like it got tightened even more, pulling against my high cheek bones and beginning a concave dip to my chin. My eyes look deep-set, with black rings circling the icy blue coloring. The goth-bunny atop my head is in desperate need of some conditioner, dull fur lines my eyes. My shoulders are sagging and I appear as if I hadn't eaten in a week.

"I don't like you." I tell my reflection. The doppleganger snarls the same message back, his lips drawn into an ugly frown.

I soften my expression and my reflection does par, his features deathly pale in the low light. I flip myself off and pull on some clothes; a white hoodie, and black jeans. Just for color, I throw on my chullo. The blue fringe covers my dull black hair and borders my eyebrows. I head downstairs and grab a granola bar before racing out to catch the morning bus.

The cool air stings my face and I glance at my bus stop, squinting. There are two other kids who share my stop, Clyde and Token.

"Hey guys." I say in monotone.

"Hi Craig." Token greets, waving his hand.

"'Sup?" Clyde nods in my direction.

I roll my eyes. Clyde is always so... Preppy. You'd only have to take one look at the boy to tell. Clyde had a thick frame and a generously large face. Brown shaggy hair was pulled off to one side, covering his ears. He had brown eyes to match, clear and boring. Perfectly normal. Today, he had a football jacket on and light jeans. Yep. Total prep right there.

Token was a different story, albeit not by much. He had dark brown hair that flatly laid on his head, matching his skin color. The African American boy had small brown eyes and a purple jacket pulled over his shoulders. And dress pants.

"Token." I sigh, glancing at his apparel, "Why do you wear dress pants? It's not like we have a dress code."

Token shrugs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Parents are crazy."

Clyde huffs. "Hey, guys." He says a bit more cheerfully, "That Wendy-chick was so totally checking me out at gym yesterday."

"Pft. Good luck with that one, Casanova." Token blows air out of his nose.

"Hey, I think it'll work out!" Clyde grins, the corners of his mouth pulling an elfish smile.

"God, Clyde. You are such a weirdo." I grumble, casting a glance at the road.

"Says the monotone Mormon asshole." Clyde retorts.

"Screw you."

"When and where, Craigy?" Clyde flutters his eyelashes at me, making me gag.

"Shut up. You know what I meant." I say, an embarrassed blush lining my face.

Clyde wraps his arm around me, his face threateningly close to mine. I place my hands in between us, attempting to push the heavier boy away.

"You are so gay." Token grumbles, glancing at us awkwardly.

Clyde places his hand over his chest in mock offense. "Token, I am the pinnacle of masculinity."

"Define '_pinnacle_'." Token grunts.

I snort, staring at the dark-skinned boy. "Can you please get off of me, Clyde?" I ask, trying to push the boy off me.

Clyde smirks and leans in closer, his lips barely brushing against my long, pale, neck.

"R-really, get off." I say, although my tone isn't exactly convincing.

Okay, now Clyde is basically on top of me, in a vertical position. Not. Comfortable. I can already feel the bright red blush on my ghostly cheeks. Token is trying to pretend we aren't there, checking up his Facebook while shooting us a glance every now and then.

"C-Clyde!" I shudder.

"Mmm?" Clyde looks content as he begins wrapping his hand around my back.

"Get off. This is so gay, dude." I say, my voice coming out stern.

"Okay..." Clyde says, disheartened. "You're such a downer." He pulls away.

"You were trying to make a move on me!" I reply.

"So?"

"'So' we're both guys last time I checked!" I huff.

"Really now? C'mere." Clyde gestures for me to walk closer to him.

I tentatively step forward before punching Clyde in the face. Clyde reels back and falls on his butt. Point five seconds later, he's bawling his eyes out.

"_Wah_! T-that hurt, C-Craig!" Clyde sobs, rubbing his nose.

"Next time, be more cautious." I say sharply, flipping him off just as the bus arrives.

We make our way onto the bus, Clyde taking his seat next to me. Kyle and Stan sit across from us, along with the baby hippo.

"_Waugh_! It hurts!" Clyde cries. His face is red from crying and he's really annoying me now. "Wah! Craigggg!"

"What does it take for you to shut up?" I hiss.

Clyde looks at me like an innocent puppy. Haha. Innocent puppy my backside. "Kiss it." He says.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Aren't you straight?" I glance at the football linebacker. I've only known him for a day and all he ever talks about is what girl he's gonna go out with or who he thinks is 'hot'.

Clyde shrugs, "Yeah. I'm straight. Straight as a ruler." Just to prove a point, Clyde reaches into his bag and pulls out a plastic ruler. With much force, he manages to bend the ruler almost in half. "But it bends, see? Well, actually, the wooden ones don't, but that's besides the point."

I let out an irritated huff. Clyde is such a weirdo.

"Come on." He leans closer to me, only to get smacked.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"I dunno. Being you, I guess." I shrug.

"You're a meanie!" Clyde whines.

"I'm also an asshole, a Mormon, a monotone jerk, and _STRAIGHT_." I glare at the boy as he shakes viscously.

Clyde gives me a sharp poke with his finger and I flip him off as he switches seats to sit next to Token. I watch as Token's face quickly grows to a bright red color, even with his dark skin-tone. Well, it certainly didn't take Clyde long to get over my rejection. Whatever.

Our bus stops and two girls climb in. One sits next to me, while the other sidles up next to Stan.

"Hey Stan." She says happily, effectively squishing Kyle against the window as she leans closer to Stan. Her voice is shrill and annoying.

"Hi Wendy." Stan says nonchalantly.

Wendy has dark raven hair, to match Stan's. Instead of a beanie, however, she has a purple barrette. She has a purple coat and yellow pants, making herself like a hipster. The thing that makes her pop out the most, though, is her eyes. They're dark blue, almost to the color of violet, and they have icy blue flecks surrounding the iris.

"Who's this again?" She asks, gesturing over to me.

The girl next to me rolls her eyes and smirks. "It's the new kid, Craig Tucker. Or are you too lovesick over Stanley to remember?"

"Shut up, Bebe." Wendy says, an evident blush over her olive skin.

Bebe has curly blond hair, but nothing like Tweek's. The color is a pretty shade of dusty blond, flying in frizzy clumps around her head. She only has on a red sweater that tempts the line of 'appropriate', and some gray skinny jeans. She looks pretty enough, but she has a wild streak in her eyes; one that scares me just a bit.

"Oh come on, Wendy. I mean, look at him!" She points to me and talks as if I'm not there. Yeah, I really don't like this girl.

"So?"

"He looks just like Stan!" Bebe says.

"He looks like a weirdo." Wendy states.

I flip her off, causing her to blow her top. "Did you just flip me off?!" She screeches.

"No." I say, as if I didn't just flip her the bird.

"Yes you did!"

"No I didn't."

"Yes you-" I show her another middle finger. "There, you did it again!" She barks, pointing at me over Bebe.

"No I didn't." I say stoically.

Before Wendy can nag me again, the bus lurches to a stop and we arrive at Park High. It's basically the mix of South Park, North Park, and Middle Park. I hop out, pushing past people in a race to avoid Wendy's deathly glare. Of course, soon as I get out I feel a hand grip my shoulder. I whirl around to get a face-full of a manicured fist. And damn, does it hurt.

"Ow, Goddamn, Wendy! That hurts!" I hiss, pressing my palm to my face.

"That is for being a jerk." She says sharply.

I wait until she turns around to flip her off again. Wendy can go get run over by a truck, for all I care. I grumble and walk to my locker, undoing the lock and stuffing my crap inside.

* * *

The day goes slow as hell, so I'll spare you the details. Most of which include me staring at a glass clock that is positioned over the door. When the day finished, I walked outside of the school building, enjoying the cool air for once.

"Hey, Craig!" I whip around to see Clyde and Token racing towards me, connected by the hands. Token has an evident blush, but Clyde looks perfectly fine.

"What did you need, Ruler-Boy?" I ask in monotone.

"Where are ya goin'?" He asks.

"The mental hospital." I say, as if it's the most normal thing ever.

"What?" Clyde's face is contorted into a confused glance.

"Yep. Dad works there." I say.

"Oh wow, cool!" Clyde's face brightens. "Hey, do you think your old man'll let us have a field trip there?"

"No." I say.

"Great! I'll ask Mr. Pellegreno!" Clyde grins. His face has a cocky smile plastered across it. "Come on, Tokey." He coos to an embarrassed Token as they walk away.

"But I didn't..." I stop myself. It's not like Clyde will listen anyways. I'll save my breath. Then something hits me:

_"Tokey?" _

* * *

**_Ah-hah-hah! I put in some Tyde! ...which sounds like laundry detergent. The little Lullaby thing was from Eminem: Mockingbird, so don't think I made it up. Okay, so I know this Chapter is useless, but I just wanted to put in a filler while I finish mentally mapping out the story, so this'll have to do. AND FOR THE LOVE OF JEFFERY, REVIEW! Please, man, I'll quit writing this story and I really kinda like it..._**


	5. Hazel Eyes

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes:_

_-First off, my little notes will be up here now. _

_-Jesus, I was this close to actually deleting the story, but a few reviews convinced me to try ONE more time. _

_-This story is staying in Craig's Point of View_

_-This chapter is as rushed as a firetruck, but cut me some slack, it's not overly done, I don't think._

_-I Love you all! Cupcakes for all the bro's!_

* * *

I step inside Tweek's room, carefully shutting the door behind me. The soft ticking of a clock is the only noise in the room besides the occasional anxious noise from the boy in the hospital bed. I unceremoniously avoid Tweek's eyes, instead staring down at my shoes in shame. I can't look at him. I mean, if you had a breakdown in front of a Mental patient, you wouldn't feel like looking at them either. He must feel so high and mighty now. I wonder if he knows how ashamed I am. Is he taking advantage of my failure to act cool and collected?

Tweek lifts a hand in a greeting gesture, poking my cheek. I slap his hand away angrily and force myself not to flip him off.

"Don't touch me." My voice comes out steady and harsh. I must sound like my bastard father.

Tweek nods, instead holding his finger an inch away from my face before quickly tapping it and yanking his hand away. I snap my head up at him and he pretends to not have even been looking my way. Is he stupid? He and I are the only ones here. I give him a class-three scowl and look back down. As soon as my face is parallel to the ground, Tweek pokes me again. Is he...? Is he trying to be_ playful_?

I look up and stare at him in a confused manner. He only glances back at me with indifference and apathy, but I see the hidden mischievous smirk on his twitching lips. I find myself smirking back before tentatively poking at his face with my own finger. Tweek smiles and smacks my hand away, and I attempt to poke his face again.

This game actually goes on for quite a while, increasing in intensity, if that's possible. It culminates with me jabbing at his side and earning a quick squeak out of him. Tweek's large eyes water, sending my heart to a crashing halt. I lean over him to comfort him, and end up with his own hand jabbing into my side. With a short spasm and an equally embarrassing squeak, I fall backwards.

Then I heard it. The most angelic, sweet, sounding thing I've ever heard. Tweek laughing. It's not scraggly, or rusted like some might expect a mute child's voice to be after neglecting it so long. It's actually rather smooth and soft. I'm afraid to scar Tweek's voice with my own, rough one. So I just smile and look at him, trying to convey the care in my stoic, cold eyes. Real smooth, Tucker.

Soon, Tweek's giggling comes to a halt and he looks at me with a sense of understanding that I'm finding hard to grasp. Isn't this kid mentally insane? Should he even be able to convey any emotion other than agony or fear? But there it is. Right in his large hazel eyes. I see a depth of understanding and fierceness that I find confusing, if not regal in a sort of manner. This time, when I feel emotions that I'd blocked out, I accept them gratefully. The first ones are adoration and loyalty. They make me feel like I'm automatically responsible for the little blonde. I guess I am, in a sort of way.

Next comes joy, hope, and... _Love_.

I don't regard that last emotion, instead pushing it away with a flop of my stomach. Why did that emotion come to me? I don't care, actually. Love is... Unexplainable. It's not irrational, but it makes people go to lengths that are beyond the call of duty. I never even felt love for my sister or mother. I only felt caring. This is different, somehow. It makes my heart skip beats, and my smile widen. Not such as a smirk, or even a kind smile. It's a loving one. As far as I know, I wasn't even capable of such things. But it feels nice.

Tweek looks at me bashfully, allowing me to brush away some of his platinum hair out of his eyes so that I can see them better. I want to feel this, 'love' more. I want to absorb the feeling of his hazel eyes into mine so that I can never forget them. So that I can always feel this feeling. Tweek looks just as absorbed as I feel, lips slightly parted as if in a trance. My face hypnotically pushes forward until our eyes are drinking the sight of each other in.

"I'm going to protect you, okay?" I feel as if this isn't an obligation, but rather a command.

"Okay." Tweek mutters. I know he can speak. I also know that I'm the only one he dares speaking to. I like it that way. My dad isn't going to find out, nor are any therapist, nurses, or phycologists that Tweek doesn't want to know. And the way he looks at me tells me that I'm the only one that NEEDS to know.

He needs me. And that's all I need. He cares about me. And that's all I care about. He trusts me. And I trust his sincerity. He loves me.

But I don't know if I love him back.


	6. The Orphanage Song

**I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes: _

_-Ah... It feels accomplishing to not give up on a story. Thanks again to all my readers, reviewers, favoriters, and followers. You have convinced me to keep going (albeit at a half-dead snail's pace). _

_-Jesus. I re-read this thing and it is pure flabergastery on how I could write so badly sad compared to what was going on in my head. _

_-If you haven't already seen, I have a counterpart fic of this one in Tweek's point of view. Pleasepleaseplease check it out! I'm actually proud of it (rare occurance). _

_-Sorry for rushing this story so much. I'll try and pace it down a tad._

_-The song Tweek sings is called, __**Pinkie Pie's orphanage song.**_

* * *

_"Stop squirming, boy." A burly man says in a hushed voice. He carries along a small four year old child. _

_Tweek's large eyes dart around. Where is this place? Where is he going? It's dark as they pass the city streets. Why can't his dad call him, 'son'?_

_"Dad." He says, trying to gain his father's attention. "Where are we?" _

_His father doesn't even look down or flinch. He trots onward, as if he hasn't even heard his son. _

_"Dad!" Tweek shouts again. "Daddy, I want to go home. It's cold." Tweek says louder, yanking on his father's shirt for effect. _

_His father trudges on, closing his grip on Tweek tighter as they both near a large white building. Tweek notices that the windows are barred, but makes nothing of it. _

_"Dad, am I getting a checkup?" Tweek asks, cocking his head slightly. His father pays no mind and slips in. _

_By now Tweek is frustrated, angry almost. How dare his father not pay him any means of attention! In such a scary place, too. Aren't fathers supposed to comfort their children? _

_Soon a heavy set man walks up. He has a bout of curly red hair on each side of his pudgy face. Beady eyes sit on his face, black and dull. _

_"Hello, Mr. Tweak." He says cheerfully. _

_"Hi, Mr. Tucker." Tweek's father returns. _

_Mr. Tucker kneels down on one knee, eyeing Tweek confusedly. His confusion quickly changes to interest as he keeps his eyes on Tweek happily. A sly smile creeps up on his lips. _

_"This must be him." He says, holding a calloused hand out. Tweek's eyes widen as he hides behind his father's legs. _

_"Dad, I don't like this man. I wanna go home. I wanna see mommy." He says frightfully, looking up at his father. _

_Mr. Tweak just frowns and shakes his head before scooping his son up and setting him back down next to Mr. Tucker. Tweek's eyes start to water, and he tries to approach his father again, only for the same result. _

_"Daddy! Please!" Tweek whimpers helplessly. "Don't make this mean man take me!" _

_"Okay, Tweek. We're going to go into the safe room now. Your daddy is going to come visit you tomorrow." Mr. Tucker says curtly, roughly grabbing Tweek's arm and yanking him away. _

_"Daddy! Mommy!" Tweek screams as he inches farther and farther away. _

_Mr. Tucker leads him to a cold room. It's pure white and anything but safe-looking. A metallic bed frame sits in one corner, glinting in the artificial lighting. Neon bulbs light the room. _

_"Okay, Tweek. It's bedtime, isn't it?" Mr. Tucker says happily, setting Tweek on the mattress. _

_"No! I wanna go home!" Tweek pouts fervently. _

_"Nighty-night, Tweek." Mr. Tucker slips out of the room, and a clicking sound echoes into the walls. _

** Click... Click... Click...**

"Step one: try not to be so self conscious..."

Hm? Is that someone? I don't wake, but instead listen to the ragged voice.

"Step two: move your weight onto your haunches..."

I let the off-key singing into my ears as I listen. What are 'haunches' anyways? Aren't they like, your buttocks? But then why isn't that the lyric? Oh, wait. It doesn't rhyme. Duh.

"Step three: take a leap into the air and four-"

This sounds like a happy song. I like it.

"Try to forget your parents are both dead!"

Oh. Nevermind.

"S'okay, if you don't remember, if they had even loved you tender. Just pay attention to the horizon, surely it's on fire like the past!"

... Why is this song so sad? It has a cheerful, catchy tune, but the lyrics are horrifying! I lift my middle finger up and flip off the singer.

"That song is depressing." I mutter, opening an eye I don't remember closing.

"Hm? Oh I f-forgot. You can h-hear me." Tweek says bashfully, rubbing his scalp. "Y-you fell asleep." He pointed out.

"No shit." I deadpan.

"Step five-"

"Shut up." I growl. I don't like that song at all.

I rub the hair under my blue hat, closing my eyes again. Tweek's twitching dies to a falter. Darkness sweeps over my eyes. Questions swim around in my head about the dream I was having before Tweek interrupted it with his depressingly happy song. Did that really happen? No. I'm thinking crazy thoughts now. My father is a horrible person, trying to reform me into some psycho like everyone else here. Except maybe Tweek. I feel weightless as my body drifts off into-

"Step five: don't worry about where you're going."

Shit.

"Six: even if your house is glowing."

I absentmindedly flip Tweek off.

"Sev-en's hoping there's a heaven."

Unless you're Jewish. Or Atheist. Or any other religion besides Christian.

"Eight: cut a rug and maybe dig some holes!"

... What?

"Chin up, even if you're not flaunted. It doesn't mean that you're unwanted! But it would help if you were pretty. Not just some twitchy freak who nobody will ever love because you're unworthy!" Tweek trails off and sighs.

I open an eye. Tweek must not have any ego. Well, if I lived at a mental hospital, I guess I wouldn't have one either.

"Did you make that up?"

"Damien did. I just altered it." He says.

"Who's Damien." I state as a demand. Tweek flinches and sighs.

"Nobody. We're not... Friends anymore." Tweek says softly.

"Oh."

We sit in silence, the clock ticking us on. Tweek twitches softly, spasms hitting him. Where's my dad? What time is it, even?

"Seven-twenty. Supper time, oh joy." Tweek deadpans. As if on cue, two nurses walk in, one glaring at Tweek like he's her ex. Tweek flinches away and allows himself to be walked out. I follow along.

We walk along the corridor into the lunch room. The nurse on the left smiles widely at me and passes me the handcuff gently.

"You're Tucker's son, yes?" She asks in a smooth feminine voice.

"Sadly." I mumble softly so she can't catch it.

"Watch him for us." She says curtly, trotting off. The other nurse follows her, rubbing a bandage on her arm.

Tweek leads me into a lunch line. He quickly snatches up some green jell-o and spaghetti and trots of, me trailing behind. The blonde boy trudges over to a table where two other kids are talking.

One is pudgy, with brownish hair and dull blue eyes. His childish smile fades as Tweek sits down. The other has long black hair and a permanent scowl on his face that slopes even lower. Their gazes quickly flit over to me.

"Who are you?" The scowling one hisses.

"Craig."

He glares at me further and then turns to Tweek. "Leave." He orders. "

"No." Tweek says angrily. Are other people on it, too? There goes my feeling of being special. "I don't take orders from you, Damien."

So this is Damien. Huh.

"Look at me when you speak." He commands. I'm point five seconds away from beating the shit out of this kid. "I can't tell what you're saying." He says honestly.

... Huh?

Tweek obliges, repeating the sentence to Damien's face. Damien's scowl darkens as he hisses. "_Freak_." He chuffs, turning away.

Tweek looks broken. He stops eating his food and instead turns to me. I nervously tap my fingers. What, am I supposed to cheer him up? His look tells me yes. I sigh and pet his head, releasing a breath and smiling.

He smiles back.


	7. My Dream Was Your Memory

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes:_

_-Nobody reads this, do they? _

_-I wanted to go further into Damien's character and make sure he isn't just a filler. _

_-Thank you all for making me believe in this poorly written little story of mine! It means oodles and oodles of ramen-noodles to me. Seriously, I have a mini-heart attack whenever I get a review, favorite, or follow. I am __**such**__ a loser. XD_

_-Ramen noodles for reviewers, goldfish for favorites, and stickers from Butters' collection for followers!_

_-Brohoof! /)_

* * *

I didn't know petting kids made them happy. Huh.

But either way, Tweek was definitely in a better mood. He cheerfully ate his food while humming a recognizable tune. What song was tha- aw _damn_.

I'm the one humming. And I'm humming that depressing song. Tweek notices and smirks ever so slightly. I blush in embarrassment before flicking him on the shoulder.

"Craig, Tweek." I hear the cold voice of Mr. Egotistical Damien. "Hey, c'mere."

Tweek glances at him warily before obliging and scooting forward. I watch like a cat hunting. Damien looks at me and I nonchalantly flip him off. Scowl.

"Last night," he begins, "I had a dream."

"So?" Was Tweek's short reply. "I have dreams all the time."

"No. This one was different." Damien insists. "It wasn't hazy or confusing like other dreams. Just some parts were blurry, but I could still look around like I was actually living it."

"Living the dream?" Tweek chuffs.

"This isn't funny, asshole." Damien growls.

"I never said it was." Tweek argues.

"That's besides the point. Either way, it seemed more like a lost memory." Damien says, shivering.

"I had one too." My voice is there before I can stop it. "But it wasn't mine."

"Nor mine." Damien admits. "It was about some boy who was crying over this grave. I don't know what it means."

I stay silent, my hand clenched into a fist. I think this nuthouse is affecting my mental stability. Suddenly, a ghost of a warmth hits my clenched fist, and I'm compelled to loosen it. Little points of heat rub against my now-open palm, and I sigh at the feeling of comfort. The warm points mass up into a large area of heat that rests on my open palm. One point continues rubbing along the area between my index finger and thumb. I flicker my eyes over to my hand to see another placed on top of it. That's funny, I don't remember having two right hands.

Oh, wait. I'm holding hands. With _Tweek_.

Huh.

Tweek smiles, his face has a ghost of pink on it. Brushing that off, I direct my attention to Damien once more. He's looking at me in a smug manner. I must've had a confused look on my face, because the asshole motions towards our hands with his eyes. I pick up my other hand and unsuspiciously flip him off. With him unfazed, I tried another option.

I curl my fingers inward, each individual digit finding its' way into an opening between two of Tweek's fingers. Tweek gasps at the motion and stiffens. After a few moments, he loosens up, allowing his hand to entwine with mine. Damien's eyes widen and flame _oh-so-slightly._ Ignoring the holes he was trying to beam into my head, I redirect my gaze to Tweek. Said boy had an obvious flush on his face and ate in silence, albeit the occasional twitch or outburst. His pale lips curl into a ghost of a smile.

"C-Craig?" Tweek asked softly. I direct my attention to him and smirk.

"Yeah?" I say.

"You're n-not as b-big of an a-asshole as I th-thought." He smirks, followed by a hoarse laugh.

"You suck." I mutter.

Tweek smirks even more and pokes his free hand into his jell-o before slapping my face with it. Green jelly hangs off my cheeks and chin, globs of it sticking to my pale face. I smirk slyly at him, and he grins back.

"You gonna lick that off?" I say, eyes half-lidded and a coy smile.

Tweek's eyes widen and his face glows red. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls his arms up and shoves me off the seat. My butt hits the ground and I groan as I pick myself up. For such thin arms, Tweek can actually push me off. He helps me up and I sigh, grabbing a napkin to wipe my face off. Tweek moves his hand over mine to help me and now I'm the one blushing. Out of my peripheral vision, Damien scowls harshly, grinding his lower jaw onto his top one.

"Aw, don't get so butt-hurt, Damien." I taunt, "I'm sure he'd do this for anyone."

Tweek blushes, but doesn't protest. Damien scowls even more. The kid besides him places a hand on his shoulder and distracts him. I grin victoriously.

"Who was your d-dream about, anyway?" Tweek asks, his face growing serious.

"..." I stay silent. Should I tell him, or would that just creep him out? Maybe...

"So you're the m-mute one, now?" He snorts.

"My dream was about..." I trail off and avoid Tweek's gaze, "you."

"What about?" Tweek's eyes stay steady.

"How you came here. It's stupid, I know." I mutter.

"No i-it isn't." Tweek protests. "What did you s-see?"

"You were being taken by your dad, I think. You kept screaming for him to take you home, but he wouldn't listen and just handed you over to my dad. He sort of ignored you, as if you weren't speaking at all. Then, my dad locked you in a white room. You were all alone in this room. And the last thing I heard was the door clicking." I summarize.

Tweek's hazel eyes widen and he gulps. "Th-that's.. Completely true... How did you...?" He looks stunned.

"What? Don't screw with me, Tweek." I scowl.

"I'm not-... Wha-?" Tweek looks rather out of it, shuddering and spasming. His eyes roll back and he starts breathing heavily, inhaling and exhaling at exceedingly fast paces.

I panic, trying to violently shake him. Tweek doesn't come from his trance, muttering incoherent words.

"N-no... It can't... Sold to slavery...? _Impossible_... Dad?... Where- where am I?"

"Tweek!" I shout desperately, "snap out of it!"

Tweek just stares forward and mutters words. Soon, sweat pours around his face, coating the skin with a glossy doll-like look. His eyelids flutter closed and he collapses onto the ground before I or Damien can catch him. My eyes flicker to Damien's and we both silently resolve to pick him up together. He's rather light and we heft him up with ease. We both make sure nobody is watching and duck out of there, bolting to his room. Where the hell _is _his room?

"This way!" Damien shouts, curling around a sharp corner and leaving me to slide behind him.

After a few more turns, Damien leads me to Tweek's room, **'B-4**'. We set him down on the bed and sigh, looking at him bluntly. Both of us know what'll happen if they find Tweek in an almost comatose trance-like state. They'll take him down to the room where they do all sorts of sick, twisted things. Dad told me all about it. Sometimes, they shower you in an ice room and wait until your body registers the cold enough to snap awake. Other times, they send jolts of electricity into your body. I shudder at the thought and look at Tweek.

His lips move, but no sound exits. Damien looks at him, his fingers rapping on the metal bed rails.

Out of nowhere, Tweek screams. No sound exits his mouth. Then I hear words exit his mouth, summarizing some sort of story.

"Coffee... I need coffee! Daddy, come on! Where are we going? It's scary here. Why's this man taking me away, daddy? I wanna go home. Where's mommy? Dad? It's dark in here."

Then I hear it;

**"I'm all alone..." **

And I say, "_No_, _you_ _aren't_."


	8. Damien Has A Reason

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes:_

_-Heck yeah! I broke the 25 review barrier! Thank you all sososo much! I love you. But not in a creepy way or anything..._

_-Since you all gave me such good reception on Damien, I decided to have him start off the chapter! _

_-And to think I was going to delete this story... Thanks to you guys who encouraged me to keep at it; I sort of got back into it. _

_-Enjoy, Guys!_

* * *

_Damien opens two groggy eyes, running his hand through his hair. Where is he? He looks around, brown-red eyes darting from left to right. The sky is at midnight, and the grass beneath him is sodden with fresh rain. He takes an experimental step forward and the ground beneath him blurs. When he stops, it refocuses. Damien's eyes narrow as he notices where he is. _

_"Again?" He murmurs. _

_Damien walks forward and stops abruptly. The grass has changed to pavement. Cracked asphalt meets his boots. He doesn't remember this. Last time, he was at a graveyard. He glances up and gasps. There's a run-down house, windows broken and the sides sag. The house is hauntingly familiar, but he can't place his finger on it. _

_Without meaning to delve further into the matter, Damien's feet carry him forward. He imagines phasing through the front door and... Smashes his face into the wooden surface. _

_"Ow! Shit!" Damien curses, bringing his hand to his nose. Red blood flows down his nose. They say you can't feel pain in dreams, but that damn hurt! _

_He places his hand on the doorknob, which is surprisingly cool to his touch. Twisting the knob, he opens the door and walks in. The place is a wreck, but he can see someone lives here. A cold sweat hits his face as he notices a crooked picture on the walls. There's a family staring back at him. One boy stares at him in particular. The rest is faded, like a camera filter ran through and nit-picked what he was going to see. _

_Something drags Damien upstairs, and he automatically takes a left turn into a familiar room. His eyes widen at the sight before him. _

_A boy rests on the ground, a red sticky liquid pooling around him. A knife protrudes from his stomach. Damien's face goes even paler. _

_It's him. _

...

"Damien, wake up!" I bark. I've been trying to rouse him for three minutes.

At one point, blood started going down his nose. I shake him harshly. Why don't I get to sleep for once?

"Wake up, or so help me Jesus I will blast Justin Beiber in your ears until they bleed!" I threaten.

Damien's nose scrunches up, but other than that, he doesn't move. I grumble and rip out my iPod, blasting the music that Ruby put on there a year ago. I still refuse to get rid of it, even though I hate it. I guess it just feels like I still have part of Ruby with me, even if it's annoying. God, I sound like a weirdo now, don't I? Either way, I smash the earbuds in and blast '_Baby_' on full volume.

Damien's eyes shoot open and he breathes heavily before ripping them out and glaring at me.

"What the Hell?" He hisses, smacking my arm.

"You were bleeding." I point to his nose.

He feels his nose and his eyes widen, "Holy shit." He manages.

"What?" I raise an eyebrow.

Damien turns from me and wipes his nose angrily. "Nothing." He says sharply, walking towards Tweek. "How's he doing?"

"Fine." I say curtly, wedging myself in the space between him and Tweek. "He fell asleep a while ago. Along with SOMEONE who was too lazy to stay up."

Damien scowls at me and I double-flip him off.

The sound of someone smashing on Tweek's plaster door makes me jump. I whirl around, only to find my father looking at me with a less-than-pleased expression. Actually, he looks pretty pissed.

"Craig, what the _Hell_ do you think you're doing?!" He bellows, his face almost as red as his hair.

Despite wanting to clutch onto something and hang on for dear life, I manage to glare at him defiantly. "Not much. Just chillin' with Tweek and Damien here." I say, my voice coming out steady.

"You were not assigned to Damien Thorn!" He screams. "You were also meant to come to my office three hours ago! I've been worried sick!"

"Call the presses." I deadpan. "So, for the past three hours it hasn't even entered your mind that I might be in Tweek's room?"

"N-no! I mean yes! I- er- Craig, you are in big trouble!" He stumbles over his speech.

"What're you gonna do? You've already ripped me away from my home and family, dad. What else can you take?" I scowl angrily.

He pauses for a moment before his eyes flicker over to Tweek. _My_ Tweek. My face momentarily pales and he grins widely. I shudder inwardly and try to keep glaring, but he has me pinned.

"You know, Craig, Tweek has been acting awfully strange lately. I don't think he's fit for this hospital anymore." I gulp loudly an step backward so that I block his line of vision to Tweek. "I suppose he has to be.. Relocated."

"You wouldn't!" I yell.

Relocation is the friendly term that the doctors use to say, 'This person is too screwed up to be in a mental hospital, so we're bringing him to the morgue before he kills someone'. Either he wants to put Tweek down, or he's going far, far away, under a watchful eye and alone.

Damien is the one to speak up this time. "Mr. Tucker,_ you are going to Hell!_" He screeches. "You have no right to do anything to Tweek!"

"I have every right." Dad says pridefully. "You know, there's always an advantage to having a lawyer 'friend' wrapped around your finger. Broflovski would love to help me forge some documents."

Broflovski... Why does that sound so familiar?

"I'll send a child abuse report!" I scream.

"And I will make sure you are a registered mental patient." He retorts.

This man is not my father. He is cold, and has no heart. His eyes are dull and lifeless. His flesh is rotted with hate and a fake smile plasters among his face. He feels nothing. He has a stoic glare and a sarcastic attitude.

I must appear to be just like him.

I am NOT going to become like my father. And I know just what I need to do to prove that.

Tonight, I'm going to run away with a mute mental patient.


	9. See Tweek Bark

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Note's:_

_-I'm sorry this chapter is short; my brain doesn't like me that much. _

_-This chapter is prone to change, so just say the damn word._

_-Please review, it makes me a little bit happier. _

* * *

Getting in a mental hospital is much easier than someone would expect. It's getting out that's the tough part.

I managed to make my way in simply telling a nurse that I forgot something in my father's office. The stupid demon didn't know the wiser. Once I got past her, I veered into the 'B' hallway and to Tweek's room.

The door wasn't even locked.

I gently push the door open and look inside. Tweek is still asleep. It looks more like an actual sleep rather than a comatose though. I gently ruffle his blonde hair and his eyelids flutter open. Tweek looks at me groggily, "C-Craig?"

I'm sorry, I have to clean the melted Craig off the linoleum floors right now.

"Hey, Tweekers." I muster, rubbing his cheek. Tweek twitches his face and frowns.

"Can you s-save it?" He stutters, though his face is nice and red. "I can't move."

I pull down his covers and see that he is well held down with leather restraints. Without batting an eyelash, I go to work, undoing the straps. The belts are strong and tough to decipher. I find myself getting increasingly frustrated and more sloppy and clumsy. With an agitated grunt, I smack the belt with my hand.

"That's not exactly my idea of lock picking, but it's interesting." I whip around and see Damien Thorn staring at me with a shit-eating smile on his face.

"Screw you, Damien. Just help me, please?" I say in a pathetically weak voice.

Damien nods and helps Tweek out, easily undoing the locks and helping him out of his bed. Tweek wobbles and clutches onto Damien for help. I feel my nostrils flare, but don't say anything. Tweek buries his head in Damien's arm and lifts himself better.

"Can you walk?" I say somewhat rudely.

"Mm. I think s-so." He takes a nervous step forward and crumples to the ground. Wincing, he uses the wall to pull himself up.

"You walked fine this morning." I remind him.

"It's medication, Craig. It s-sorta makes me intoxicated. Sorry." He mumbles grabbing my hand for balance. I comply, picking him up and slinging him safely over my shoulder and beginning to walk out.

Damien follows, shutting the door slowly behind him. I start heading out but Damien, being the obvious douche he is, snorts and grasps my shoulder.

"Are you turning Tweek in? No, sorry. We gotta go out the cellar way." He says bluntly, adding a sarcastic tone in.

I shift uncomfortably. Rats, snakes, and other creepy shit lurks in the shadows of the cellar. They're big as my arm and scary. Besides that, it smells horribly and it's like a maze. It takes an hour just to get out.

"Or is pretty boy not used to getting his hands dirty?" Damien taunts.

"I don't see you lugging Tweek." I retort.

"I'll be glad to carry him." Damien snaps back.

"Fine, here!" I shove Tweek into his arms and troop over to the cellar door. It's down the hall, to the left.

I suppress a shudder and feel the cold, rusty door handle. Wooden chips of peeled door splinter my hand. Closing my eyes and taking a breath, I open the door.

"Don't have to take a ritual, Craig." Damien grunts, barging through.

I roll my eyes an follow, down the staircase and into the darkness. I hear the tapping of the rat's feet on the floor and the scratching as their claws hit the stone. I shiver as a cold draft hits me and press closer to Damien. He's warm, but I pay little attention to that small detail. We step forwards, our shoes sloshing on the small puddles. I jump at little sounds, nerves wracking at my body. Damien seems content, but I can see his hands clutching onto Tweek's back in the dark. I realize that I'd been mindlessly petting Tweek's hair, too.

"I feel loved." Tweek mutters sarcastically. I snort and ruffle his hair even further.

"What's so funny, pretty boy?" Damien frowns.

"Nothing." I manage.

"Woof." Tweek barks lazily, making fun of my petting. "Woof, woof."

I smirk and roll my eyes. "Shut up."

"What? I didn't say anything!" Damien barks.

"Not you, dumbass." I say back.

"Oh, then who do you suppose you're talking to?" Damien says matter-of-factly.

"Tweek." I snap.

"He's mute, dumbass." Damien hisses with equal venom.

"Correction, he's mute to you." I say sharply. Tweek continues barking softly in the background.

"Woof." Tweek says. "Woof, woof." This changes to obnoxious panting noises as I move my hand to the back of his mane. Sighing, I rip my hand away.

Tweek's pants slow to whimpers. I smack him dully on the nose and he stops.

"Where are we?" Damien hisses.

"The cellar."

"I know that, asshole." He shoots.

"Why the hell should I know?" I ask.

"Because your dad-"

"That man is NOT my father." I cut him off, my voice deep and angry. "He is a monster who stole my damn father's skin, got it?"

Damien nods and stays silent. We walk like this for at least another hour, silently transversing the ground. The cold air nearly freezes my hands to the bone. Damien presses close to me and throws me Tweek. I grunt in effort and look down. Deciding that I can't hold him unless he does some work, I prop him so that his hands and legs wrap around me. Tweek's bony wrists sling around my neck and his legs curl loosely around my waist. I'm used to this grip since Ruby used to cling on to me like this all the time. I twist my hands around Tweek and hold him by his mid-back.

"You're warm." He breathes onto my neck.

I shudder at the feeling of his warm breath against my skin. Heat radiates off of Tweek's body. "Mm." I nod.

Despite Tweek dead weighting my body, I feel more than happy to carry him till we find the exit.

"Here it is!" Damien chirps.

Speak of the Goddamned devil.

I haul us through the open cellar door. Snow pelts my face mercilessly and cold whips at my neck. It sort of helps that Tweek is still breathing on it. We trudge out, not sure where to go. We can't stay here. Someone is bound to see us.

"Where do we go?" I ask dumbly. Did it ever occur to you, Tucker, that maybe you were supposed to figure this out?

"Tweek says he has a father in Kentucky. We can probably go there." Damien replies. "But not in these clothes."

I want to say that clothes shopping is the last thing on our to-do list, but it does make sense. Since nobody is dumb enough to hang their clothes on a line in snow, we have to find another way to steal it. All my clothes are white, and I really don't need anyone suspecting we're all in the KKK.

We decide to head to Token's since that dude probably has some clothes to spare. I knock on the white plaster door and he abruptly opens it. Staring me down, he gives me a skeptical look before letting me in.

"Craig? What did you need? It's late." He yawns.

"No shit, genius. Now help me get some clothes." I demand.

"What?" He looks dumbfounded.

I shuffle into his room. "That kid who I've been assigned to? His name is Tweek. I'm gonna run away with him, an he can't run around in a hospital gown." I explain urgently.

"No." Token says bluntly.

"Why not?" I ask.

"I don't want to get caught up in whatever gay little scheme you're pulling." He says.

"Black asshole!" I growl. "Tweek will DIE if he can't get away. Want that to happen? Huh? When some innocent kid dies, it'll be all on you, shitskin!" Uncalled for, Tucker.

"F-fine!" He snips.

He opens his closet and throws me a book bag. Reluctantly, he throws me three sweatshirts, two tee's and two pairs of jeans. "Here." He says, voice tight. "Take these and get out of my house."

And with the wisp of a hand, I'm off.


	10. Voices Are Insanity

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes: _

_-This is going to be a darker chapter, abuse, death, and insanity awaits. _

_-Do not be confused. This chapter is about Craig reliving Tweek's memories._

_-Pretty please with a latte on top review! They make me this much happier and my day this much less crappy_.

* * *

We press on after an awkward changing session. Tweek still clings to my shoulders, although me and Damien switched turns while one another changed. Now we were faced with the question of how we were supposed to get halfway across the country.

"W-we could hop o-on a train, l-like in F-frosty The Snowman." Tweek suggests.

"Frosty the Snowman." I deadpan.

"Actually, that sort of sounds like a good idea." Damien puts a finger to his chin thoughtfully.

"Fine. Lets hop on a train like Frosty the Fricking Snowman." I decide.

"Yay!" Tweek cheers. "I w-wanna be the bunny."

"Yeah. Sure."

We trek to the train station and look around. Several trains are open and we select one that is headed to Cincinnati. Inside is a shipment of coffee grounds. I swear, I've never seen anyone as happy as Tweek was when we got hit head on with the overpowering scent of beans.

"Is- is that coffee? Oh p-please tell me it's c-coffee." Tweek whispers. I hop inside and heft him along with me. Damien pulls himself up too, using my sleeve for leverage.

"It's definitely coffee." I groan as my nose goes into overdrive.

"I miss c-coffee." Tweek crawls over to me and curls into a bout of coffee beans. "My d-dad owned a c-coffee shop. Used to g-give it to me all the t-time."

"Oh." I say awkwardly, trying desperately to get comfortable.

"C-Craig?" He whispers, picking his head up to look at me.

"Yeah?"

"Is- is it w-wrong to miss m-my d-dad?" Tweek wonders.

"No it isn't." I say sharply, missing my own dad. The one that actually loved me. Even if that one was nonexistent since I was two.

"Thanks." Tweek musters, coiling into a spiraly shape and into the crook of my arm. Damien stares at us distantly from the other side of the car, not making eye contact. I wonder how it feels, to be unloved.

My eyes slowly droop and I feel a slight warmth to the side of me as I drift to sleep. Blackness edges my vision and the scrutinizing glare from Damien is no different from the darkness.

* * *

Where am I? My vision is hazy, but even so, I can tell that I'm no longer in the train car, and the warmth beside me is gone. Replacing it is cool air that uncomfortably stings at my skin. I take an experimental step forward and the area in front of me goes into better focus and the land behind me dissolves. Kind of like that assassin's creed game. Briskly stepping forward, I try and glance at my surroundings. Things seem like they were taken in good quality, but got screwed up with an MS paint smudge tool.

Suddenly, I feel the need to run. No particular reason at all. I just need to run. I kick my feet and soil flies behind me before dissolving like the rest of the dreamscape. Run, my brain echoes. Where am I going? My feet don't seem to mind that my head has no idea where to go. They self-righteously push onward, and it annoys me to no end. My brain spits words into my head, cruel, mean things that make me want to stop running so I can curl up on the gravel beneath me.

"**Emotionless**."

"**Pathetic**."

"**Unloved**."

My mind taunts me harshly, and I can hear the malice in it's words. Is this what it's like to be schizophrenic? To have voices telling you things that make you feel miserable? I keep running, my feet aching and sore from it. Houses fly by at unimaginable speeds, but that might've been from the blur. Finally the world starts to come into view, and a house looms in my vision. It's decently built, albeit cracked paint and a mangled window. My head still mutters the words, quieter now.

"**Meaningless**."

"**Heartless**."

"**Useless**."

The words bounce off my mind eagerly, as if it's a game to see which one will make me crack. "Shut up." I tell it, forcing myself through the door and up the stairs. I automatically turn left, into a small room. Before I can close the door behind me, I hear a voice.

"Where the Hell were you?" The sound is rigid and sharp, hardly recognizable as a female's tone. It makes me freeze, for reasons unknown and fills me with terror.

I stand stiffly, and my mind has died down to the point where it seems like they're watching me. Scrutinizing and glaring at my every imperfect move. It's... It's too much pressure.

"Well?" The voice sounds expectant, and I can't help but cringe at the drunken undertone.

"I-I have no idea, Ma'am." I manage, slinking down so that I appear smaller. Small, I tell myself. Small is good. Small is safe. If you're small, than maybe she won't see you. I know that it's false hope, however and I hear the rabid thumping up until a shadow reaches my vision.

Turning, my eyes meet cold ones. It's a lady, that's for sure. She has a cool composure, and underlying that, a raging storm of anger. Ebony hair curls around her broad shoulders and formal attire fits her body. Her nose is short and swine-ish and her eyes are beady. A sense of undetected dread fills my stomach, and I can't help but feel tiny under her threatening size.

"No idea. That's a rather funny joke. Did you learn it from one of your friends? Wait, I forgot. You don't have any." She sneers, the edge in her voice cutting the air.

"I-I-" I'm rendered speechless, and for some off reason, afraid. Shouldn't I be fighting back? Shouldn't I call her a bitch and flip her my middle finger?

"Quit your motherfucking stuttering, _freakshow_." She commands. I shrink deeper.

"Sorry." I manage.

"Forget it." She barks. "Just go in the kitchen and fetch _mommy_ a beer." She turns on heel and walks away. I wince and nod, waiting for her to go down the stairs before sighing and retreating to the room I had earlier planned to enter.

The room is dark, for one. A single bed sits in one corner, along with a desk and a notepad. Along the room, books line wall shelves and such. I subconsciously walk to the bed and reach under the pillow, my hands searching for something I have yet to put a name on. Finally, my fingers clasp around a piece of thin laminated paper. I tug the photo out and look at it.

It's some lady I don't recognize. She has a cheerful face with brown, full hair that bounces around her shoulders. Hazel eyes look at me, as if she wants to comfort me with them. Around her, she wears an old apron that says, 'Tweak Bros.' on it. I stuff the picture in my pocket and tromp out of the room, heading down the stairs.

I move like an automaton, opening the fridge and taking out a beer for the crude lady who had the guts to call herself my mother. A glint catches my eye and I find myself staring at a piece of metal. The voices in my head begin to speak rapidly, excitedly.

"**Pick it up.**" One says.

"**You can do it.**" Another chides.

"**Unless you're chicken**." A third adds.

"Are you brain-dead? Hurry up!" The lady calls, picking herself off the couch and stomping towards me. I continue to stare at the cold, unforgiving blade of the knife, beer still in my hands and the refrigerator door still open.

"**Come on, just touch it.**" The voices chide in unison.

"**Just run your finger along the blade once. I promise it won't hurt."** The voices sway me. I feel an otherworldly tug towards the weapon, and the voices make it seem irresistible.

"**Much**." The last one adds with a hint of slyness.

"Goddammit!" The lady's voice snaps me out of my daze and she smacks me. Hard. Pain lurches from my face and I drop her drink.

She stares at me in disgust before kneeling down and grabbing her beer. Opening it, the fizz dribbles down and hits me. The liquid is cold as she ruthlessly dumps it over me, and I shiver like a kicked puppy. A flash of flaming throbbing hits me, as I feel something glass and rough crack open on my skull. When I open my eyes, the bottle is cracked in several pieces on my head. Red splotches my vision, and I feel tears well up in my eyes. The woman snorts and walks away with a harsh command. "Get me another, dog."

I pick myself up, staggering as my bare feet sting against the broken glass. My hand reaches into my pocket only to find that the photo has been ruined and marred. I growl and clutch it. I manage cast another look at the blade. The voices go wild.

"**Go ahead! She deserves it!**" They scream, so loudly that I it drowns out the sound of the television and hurts my head. I shakily pick up the knife and start lumbering over.

I stop right behind the woman's back, her face still turned. In one fluid movement, and without thinking, I plunge the weapon deep in her skull. Insanity and raw instinct take over, and I find myself grinning wickedly as I repeatedly smash the weapon in and out of her soft head. The voices are yelling so loud now, that I can't hear the screams of my victim.

"**Go**!"

"**More**!"

"**Blood**!"

With one last stab, I pull backwards, looking at my work. Red blood pools down her face and I find myself terrified all over again. Worry and anxiety take over where happiness once was. The voices start hissing in my head, an I sink to the floor, my hand still gripping the knife like a lifeline.

"**Look what you've done.**" One chuckles.

"**You heartlessly killed your own **_**mother**_**."** Another laughs.

"**Didn't you like that?**" The loudest asks. "**The feel of your knife ripping at the soft flesh? Wasn't that amazing to have enough power to end a life**?" He coos into my head, and I stare at the weapon again.

"N-no!" I scream. My voice cracks, making it sound like I'm younger. I feel younger. Smaller.

"**Oh, we think you liked it**." The voice chides cruelly. I feel like curling up and crying. Tears prick my eyes and my stomach hurts.

"**You're a masochist, aren't you**." They hiss, making tears go past their barricade. "**You like this.**"

"I don't! Shut up!" I scream childishly. The voices are screaming now, going back to their insults and physically hurting my head.

"**Savage**."

"**Murderer**."

"**Cold**."

"_**You're just like your father.**_" The last one whispers, so quietly, that in the whole ruckus, I barely hear it. But when I do, my whole body stops. Tears flow down my face, screwing up my vision.

"Be quiet." I demand, my voice whimpering. They don't shut up. Now that they've gotten a reaction, they want to take it all the way.

"**Just like him**." The whisper into my head, viscously breaking into my sanity.

I scream and throw my hands into my hair, ripping at it furiously as they keep whispering. Taunting. I manage to dislodge a whole fistful of ebony hair and relish the minor pain. It takes my attention away from the voices for a split second.

"What the-" I hear another voice, but it isn't in my head. It sounds to real, and it lacks the malice of my mind's voices.

I look up and see a man. He has brown short hair that flies wildly everywhere. Bruises hang under his eyes like he hasn't ever slept before. The smell of coffee hits my nose.

"What have you done?!" He nearly screams when he sees my work.

"Tweek, what the _fuck_ did you do, you FREAK?!" He screams, the outrage in his voice scaring me out of my wits. Why is he calling me Tweek? My name is Craig! I look at the hair I brutally ripped out of my head for reassurance.

It's _blonde_.


	11. Vampire Wannabes and Wingless Angels

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes: _

_-Short, Fluffy, and written by a lazy-ass who could've finished this a week ago while she was on spring break._

_-Review, please. I will love you forever (in a totally non-creepy way)_

* * *

As soon as I realize I'm awake, I rip off my hat and yank on my hair.

A few strands fall loose in my hand and I recognize the ebony shade of them. Sighing in relief, I turn around. Tweek stares up at me, his eyes half-lidded and sleepy. His thin hand reaches forward and grasps my shirt, his fingers holding onto it loosely. I tense up on instinct. I still remember that dream. It was so vivid, like I was actually living the scenes that I witnessed. Fear floods my bones and I remember the voices, the pain, and the brutal insanity. It was just a dream, but I can't stop from entertaining a cruel thought.

What if it was true?

"Craig, I'm cold." Tweek mutters softly, tugging on my clothing softly. "Like, really, really, cold."

I hesitantly nod. Unknown raw fear flows through me. I lower myself until I'm laying down, but instead of curling up next to Tweek, I face away from him. I can feel his eyes bore into my pale flesh, and I cringe under his gaze.

"Craig?" He prods my back with his finger. "Is something the matter?" The words come out harshly, and I flinch.

He experimentally tries to wrap his arm around me, the long bony fingers curling by my chest. On instinct, I tense, the muscles in my body preparing for pain. Tweek notices this and yanks his arm back, angry and fast.

"You're afraid of me." Tweek accuses. He sits up and glares down at me.

Once more, I feel small. That same feeling of hopelessness in my dream floods my veins.

"No I'm not." I reply, a cold edge to my voice.

Tweek suspiciously places his hand around my shoulder. I force myself to stay calm as he gives it small squeezes. But then he starts moving it, up to where my neck is. I freeze up, and Tweek's hand is taken away.

"You ARE afraid of me." Tweek's voice is shaky and it sounds like he's going to break. "Aren't you?"

"Tweek, I'm just startled." I say, avoiding his gaze.

"No, you aren't." He counters, "You have that look."

"What look?" The words come out harsh and angry.

"Like I'm a _murderer_!" Tweek bursts out, his hands finding their way to his eyes. The blonde boy whips around so that his back faces me. I know he's trying to stop tears, even if they're already escaping.

"I had a dream, just like Damien's." I breathe out. "I was you, and-"

"You sleep-talk." Tweek spat resentfully. "I know what you were dreaming about."

"Was it true?" I splutter the words out before I can stop myself, and Tweek hunched over further.

After a short amount of time, I hear a whimpering sound emit from the blonde in front of me. Tweek's shoulders shake weakly, and his breath is uneven and ragged. Forgetting my slight fear, I crawl over to him to place my hand on his shoulder. Maybe to calm him or something. I did that with Ruby all the time to comfort her.

"Don't touch me, Craig." Tweek commands, slapping my hand away.

"Look at me." I order. Tweek twists his head so he looks at me sideways. "The whole way." I deadpan.

The smaller boy twists around so that he's facing me completely. He still avoids my gaze. I wonder if he ever realizes how he looks. Maybe it'd be biased if I said that he looked like an angel. The thing that was the most perfect about the whole scene was that... he wasn't perfect. Tweek reminded me of an angel who'd given up their wings. Because of his crime, he had to give up his wings and live in this hellhole we call life.

"Craig?" Tweek snaps me back into reality.

"Tweek." I mutter back, simply enjoying the name rolling off my tongue. I'm not afraid any more. Tweek is just an angel without wings, not a demon in a masquerade.

"Why are you staring at me?" He asks calmly, curious instead of angry.

"Because, isn't that what people do when they see angels?" I smirk at his face, which reddens profusely. Tweek's lips are drawn into a deep frown, and his forehead creases with stress lines.

"I am no angel." He spits, his anger directed at himself. "There's blood on my hands, Craig." So the dream was true, or at least the main idea of it was.

"There was blood on your wings." I correct, warmly grinning. "So they had to take them away. But you're still an angel nonetheless." Tweek's eyes flit at the metallic floor beneath us.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. I look like no angel. My face is sharp and angled, and my nose is a little lengthy. My eyes are a scary icy blue, not comforting. Dark, sinister like hair goes down one my head. I look like a vampire wannabe.

"What- what are you seeing?" I ask him, my hands clutching the ground in anticipation.

Tweek looks for a long time, his face deep in thought. This only make me more jumpy. After awhile, he smiles at me and speaks up.

"I see my Craig." He says softly.

And for some reason, that makes me _sooo_ happy.


	12. A Lone Teddy Bear in a Patch of Noodles

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes:_

_-I'm not dead, thank god. _

_-I made Tweek's dad sort of like Luke's mom from Percy Jackson. _

_-Review, please!_

* * *

Damien's brown-red eyes open only barely. Enough to see Tweek rested up against me. He nods in apathy and walks over to us. Tweek is pressed up against my chest, his ear listening to the pounding of my heart, as cheesy as that may be. Damien takes a seat, propping himself on a box of beans.

He leans forward and I protectively wrap my arm around Tweek's head. My forearm cups his cheeks. Instead, however, Damien leans towards ME. So close that I can feel his breath on my face.

"Damien..." I warn, my eyes wide.

He doesn't take the hint instead moving closer and making eye contact. Damien's eyes are deep and have a scary red color in them that I can't look past.

"I like you, okay?" He mutters, looking down. How subtle, Damien. You know, with looks like his, I was sure he'd have a better pick-up line. And of course Damien doesn't look spectacular.

And if he did infact come up with a better one-liner, I certainly wouldn't want him using it on ME.

But instead of saying all that, my face goes blank and I end up saying, "Huh?"

"I like you, Craig." He spits out.

Okay, so here's my mind. And now it's completely, utterly, fucked.

My eyes narrow. "If you like me so much, then why have you made it a point to occupy TWEEK." I demand the answer rather than ask it.

"To make you jealous, duh." He rolls his eyes and I start to push him away. What a sick, twisted, way to show someone you like them. I like his style.

"Damien, do you see my position right now." I gesture over to how Tweek is pressed tightly to my stomach, his legs curling in between mine. He shivers and I try my best to keep him warm. Maybe that'd be an easier feat if I was the one wrapped around him.

"I know." He replies solemnly. "You guys are like brothers." He adds, although I'm not sure if he says this as a fact, or as an assumption made to be answered.

Were we only like brothers? I said I would protect Tweek, not love him. But we have some sort of connection. I can hear him, but does that automatically mean he's my soulmate or something cheesy like that? But last night, he said I was his. Does that mean something, or is it just brotherly possession? I don't even know anymore. Maybe I never did in the first place. Adding another factor into a previously confusing problem as it is, is the absolute last thing I need.

Besides me, Tweek yawns, something that sounds like a kitten mewl, and digs his face further into my chest. He lets out a small sigh and returns to his sleep.

"Brothers." I repeat, trying the word out on my tongue. I don't know much, but I know that isn't right.

"Yes." Damien responds, relief filling his voice, although I can't pinpoint why.

Damien takes the much unwanted initiative, and leans forward stopping any protests I might have. His face eagerly mashed upon mine, I try and push him away with my one able arm. Damien stumbles back and looks at me with disdain.

"I don't like you." I narrow my blue eyes.

"Why not?" Damien looks heartbroken, even if his expression is much closer to accusing and angry.

"I just can't." I reply, my teeth grinding.

"You can learn." He protests.

"No." Is my only response.

Tweek shifts again because we're talking too loud. He pulls himself up, his face drawn into a post-sleep scowl. I know this because his face is now level with my own. I pick up my arm and tap him gently, waking him up. He gives one of those adorable kitten mews and looks at me with groggy, half lidded eyes.

"I was having a good dream, Craig." He puts emphasis on my name, and even though I have heard him say it several times, hearing it again makes me want to melt.

"Oh really now." Damien is gone from my vision and all I see is Tweek. MY Tweek.

"Mm." Tweek nods.

"Care to tell me what it was about?" I really hadn't noticed, but my voice goes less monotone and much sweeter around Tweek. I actually ask questions rather than demanding answers.

"I was curled up in someone's arms, and the only sound was a nice beat that echoed all around us. It was nice." He pushes his face forward so that our noses touch. Or maybe I pushed my face forward. I can't tell and I don't care.

Still, the remnants of Damien's comment is still in the back of my mind. It drags me out of my Disney Fantasy and pulls me into the real world again. My expression hardens just a little and I stand up with a tap to Tweek's shoulder.

"Come on, Tweekers." I manage.

Tweek nods and gets up, stretching and emitting little squeaks. I smirk and grip the door of the train car. I pull it open so that the wind is in my face and the grass beneath me is a blur. It feels good.

Tweek curls an arm around my waist and pulls his head forward so he can feel the wind too.

Maybe this is what it's like to be happy.

* * *

My happiness had melted into dread the moment we had managed to find Tweek's house. Apparently, Tweek had a photographic memory, but I couldn't help but wonder if he'd had dreams and knew the way because of them. Certain things seemed awfully familiar to me, but that may have just been my imagination.

The house was just as I dreamed it looked, but slightly worse. The roof sagged low and the walls caved in. Thick vines covered the small estate, crawling in and out of broken windows. The weirdest thing though, happened to be the several ceramic lawn gnomes scattered about. They had chipped noses and cracked faces, along with fading colors. I wonder for a moment if they were kept out all year-round. I think nothing of them, but Tweek clasps around me like I'm a lifeline and whimpers fitfully.

"Gnomes..." He mutters, a frightened tone to his voice. "They want... They want my blood! And my underwear!" I backtrack. Sure the gnomes looked a little creepy, but blood? Underwear?

_Underwear_?!

"They aren't going to kill you, Tweek." Damien scoffs angrily. "Stop being such a baby and grow up."

Tweak cringes at Damien's cutting voice and I can't say it sounds nice, either. I manage to drag Tweek along with me and knock on the door with the hand that doesn't have a hysterical kid attached to it.

After a few seconds, a familiar man opens the door. He has greasy brown hair that sticks out at odd angles and glassy eyes. He looks like an older version of Tweek. A smile spreads across his face when he sees us and his eyes dart to Damien.

"Tweek!" He yells, flinging himself at Damien.

"I ain't Tweek, weirdo!" Damien barks, pushing him off.

Mr. Tweak looks slightly confused before he smiles again and grabs me. "Tweek!" He yells again with equal enthusiasm.

"Dad?" Tweek mutters behind me.

Mr. Tweak smiles even broader and clears his throat, releasing his death grip on me.

"Come on in, boys!" He says with earsplitting loudness and clarity. "I have coffee brewing!"

I gulp and nod, Tweek still attached to my arm. Damien grunts and pushes past us, walking in with no hesitation.

The place is almost exact as to how I remembered it. The chair is even in The same place. We take a seat at the counter. The kitchen looks like an episode of 'Hoarders' with coffee cups strewn everywhere, some still half full. Multiple bags of grounds litter the floor. Mr. Tweak sways in, throwing us three mugs of coffee. Or rather, I wish it were coffee. It really does just look like muddy water. Not wanting to be rude, however, I take a nervous sip.

_Fuck_. It is muddy water.

I choke it down with little enthusiasm. Tweek doesn't even tough it out, splattering the drink right in Mr. Tweak's face. The adult in front of us doesn't even blink. Weird.

"So, uh- Mr. Tweak," I manage, "how're you doing?"

"Dandy!" Mr. Tweak announces, "I am a lone teddy-bear in a patch of noodles, I am!" He explains. I shift nervously.

Tweek says something about metaphors under his breath.

"Can we eat something?" Damien asks, exasperated rather than nervous.

"Coffee?" He asks.

"No, like, food. I'm starving." Damien explains like Tweek's dad is a retarded barn animal.

"Starving, an empty gum ball machine that has a new shipment coming in less than three minutes! True!" Mr. Tweak calls proudly, getting us some bread rolls and butter. Instead of knives, however, he gives us spoons.

"Spoons?" I ask, scrunching my nose up.

"Spoons...-" He goes into a long speech about spoons and I grit my teeth in annoyance.

I get up and walks up to Tweek's dad. I really don't feel comfortable, but I want to see if Tweek's dad is insane, or just weird.

"are you alright?" I asks, my voice a whisper.

"Quite!" Mr. Tweak promises.

"I know it must have been hard since-"

Then Tweek's dad goes ballistic.


	13. Mental GPS

**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes:_

_-First off. I'm sorry that this chapter is really short n' shitty. I was at a dead end and... This is the result. _

_-For anyone that's made it up to this point without giving up. I think you're amazing._

_-I'm so glad I didn't delete this._

_-Review, please. _

* * *

**Defend. Run. Succumb. **

The voice is back, just a singular monotone sound that reflects my own voice. Instead of hurling insults at me, however, it gives me options.

Tweek's father is pinning me on a nearby vertical cabinet, his face contorted into an ugly snarl. I thrash around, kicking and protesting. Mr. Tweak doesn't loosen his hold, however.

"You MONSTER." He hisses, smashing me against the wall with brute force.

The wind is knocked out of me, and I struggle to rid my eyes of the yellow and black spots dancing in them.

"I thought I was safe, but _no_! You still came to torment me, didn't you!" He shouts.

I stay silent, my eyes huge and my breathing hyperventilated. Mr. Tweak smashes me against the wall again, and I wince.

"You _demon_! I sent you away for a reason, _freak_!" He growls, his hands fumbling with something a few inches away on the table. "The lawn gnomes were supposed to HELP!" He mumbles, holding the item carefully.

It's metallic, sharp, and I want it nowhere near me. Can you guess what it is?

"No, stop!" I yell, thrashing even more. Mr. Tweak lifts up the knife, holding the blunt edge to my chin.

He smirks and pulls the knife back, aiming. In one swift movement, he plunges the weapon into my chest.

Or that's what would have happened, if Tweek didn't throw a chair at him. Mr. Tweak collapses, clutching his neck in pain. I'm dropped, and I smash onto the floor unceremoniously. Stunned, I don't know better than to sit there for a second and regain my senses until Tweek yells, "Run!"

**Run. Run. Run.**

The voice in my head commands me to stand up, and I'm moving before I can realize it. Damien follows behind me, and we race as far away as possible from Tweek's former house. Tweek's. feet carry him in hurried steps, making him look like a terrified rabbit. The blonde haired boy veers left and runs faster, his feet pounding on the gravel and kicking it up into my eyesight.

**Turn left**. The voice commands.

_'Oh, what, are you my GPS now_?' I grumble in my head, but still take a sharp left turn.

After a bout of running, and several more directions from my mental GPS, I manage to find Tweek. He rests by a train track, sitting cross-legged and facing the tracks. I trot over to him, ignoring my burning legs.

"Go away." He barks. I'm stunned. Tweek never snaps at anyone from what I'd gathered, and here he is, angry at me of all people.

"Twe-"

"I said, go away. Are you dense?" He growls, not turning to face me.

Damien grunts in exertion behind me. "Leave him be, Craig." He mutters apathetically. "I don't want him to strike you with a railroad spike." He adds, throwing Tweek a dark glare.

Tweek stiffens momentarily, but in an instant he's back to his former state. Perhaps I just imagined it. "Yeah." He mutters, flicking his blond hair with his hand. "Don't want that to happen."

I nod reluctantly and allow myself to get pulled away by Damien. He has a strong grip on my wrist and he yanks me until we're out of eye and earshot.

"Are you okay?" He asks worriedly, casting a nervous glance in Tweek's direction.

"Fine." I tell him curtly.

"Surely you see who he is now?" Damien asks with minor contempt in his growl.

"What do you mean?" My voice is cracked, maybe because I'm talking behind Tweek's back.

"He didn't even pause before attacking his father. I've heard the stories, Craig. Tweek murdered his mother in cold blood." Damien warns, holding my gaze.

"I-"

"Shush." He murmurs. "Just relax for a bit, Kay? I'm gonna look for something to eat. Stay here."

I comply, allowing my muscles to relax. It feels good to just settle down, even if it's only for a few minutes. I lay down, so that I can lazily watch as the clouds go by. The sun sets below the sky, red streaks dancing along the pale canvas.

God, that sounds really poetic. I should use that sometime.

The sun goes down further and further, and most of my mind has drifted elsewhere. Mainly day-dreaming about adventures with Spaceman Craig. The sound of crinkling and someone trotting over startles me, and I shoot up, whipping around.

"Woah, there. S'only me." Damien snorts, throwing me a bag or Doritos. "Got these from a corner store a while away."

"You took long enough." I snip, digging into my chip bag.

I inhale the junk food at an amazing rate, not even chewing. Damien eats from his own bag.

"I'm gonna give the rest of mine to Tweek. Maybe he's cooled down by now. He must be hungry." I state. I think I see a flash of nervousness in Damien's eyes, but I shove it off as wariness. Damien is probably just as off-set as I am about our run-in with Mr. Tweak.

I trot up the small slope and over to the train tracks not to far away. I walk over to the same spot Tweek was last and gasp, the color draining from my face.

Tweek is _gone_.


	14. Warm and Cold

**I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes: _

_-Sorry. Short, but that's what writers block does. _

_-Review, please._

* * *

"Tweek!" I call out helplessly. How long had I been resting? He can't be far, hopefully. "Tweek!" I repeat.

"Craig, what's- oh..." Damien trails off, staring at the empty spot where Tweek was sitting.

"He's gone." I murmur.

"I see that." Damien replies shortly.

The bag of snack food drops to the ground, making a small crinkling sound. My chest heaves up and down quickly as I worry, my breath hyperventilating. I rabidly search around the main place, checking under and over the tracks several times.

"Calm down, Craig." Damien murmurs.

"We have to find him." I return sharply, my shoulders heaving.

"Maybe it's better we don't." Damien mumbles. I catch it and glare at him, to which he holds his hands up and replies. "He ran away for a reason. Perhaps he was just using us this whole time to get home, and now that there isn't a reason to keep us, he run off."

As much as I'd hate to admit it, I actually began to agree with that. In some twisted mindset, I could imagine that Tweek didn't even care if I lived or died. But something tugged at my mental strings. Something that told me he did.

"No, that can't be it." I say, pushing past Damien and searching more.

"But what if it is!" Damien presses, holding his hand on my back. I go rigid from his touch and slink away, eyes narrowed.

"It isn't." Is my short reply. Damien snarls a bit, but doesn't do anything sans that.

I trot down the railroad tracks, mindlessly looking for a mess of blonde hair in the dark. Where's a mental GPS when you need one? My legs are sore from running, but I don't care. I hear Damien huffing behind me, trying to keep my fast pace. Every yellow thing, be it a plastic bag, or a aluminum can, I stop to inspect.

"Craig, we gotta call it a night." Damien huffs. "Tweek can't be very far by now. Let's rest, okay?"

A clench in my chest sends chills up my spine, but I nod wearily and trot off the tracks into a nearby ditch. Damien follows, curling into the ditch and trying to make himself comfortable.

"I'm keeping watch." I inform him bluntly.

"Huh?"

"If Tweek comes this way, or if his dad calls the police. Someone has to do it." I expound.

"Oh. Then jut wake me up when you're tired, Kay?" The brown eyed boy says, curling his back facing me and his voice muffled by his arm.

The night goes by agonizingly slowly, and all I want to be doing is searching. The foreign ache in my chest is only getting worse, and I find myself checking to see if I'm lying on a bruise. Worst of all, I'm chattering my teeth because of the gaping cold at my side. Feelings were like forbidden treasure for me, and now that I'd had a taste, I don't know how I can live without it.

"Hey Craig." Comes Damien's soft voice.

"Hm?" I twist around so I'm looking at him. His ruddy eyes glint with warmth and his lips draw themselves into a smile.

"I'm cold." He almost reminds me of Tweek, settling in the train car and informing me that he wanted me to lie back down. Almost.

"So?" I say apathetically.

Damien slithers over to me and wraps his arms around my chest, digging his nose into my coat. I squirm uncomfortably, although I don't push him off. "You're warm." He adds, nuzzling my back.

Funny, though. Even though I feel warm physically, mentally, I feel just as cold as before.


	15. Run

**I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes: _

_-Short as hell, but hey, at least I have something. _

_-Writers block has forced me to use Tweek's point of view. Don't hate me!_

_-Review, please. I really kinda like them._

* * *

**Tweek's POV**

I sit on the railroad tracks, heart heavy and guilt riding in my conscious. What did I just do? Feet clamber behind me and stop only inches away, from what I can assume. Why do they even bother anymore? I know Craig'll instantly make me either feel guiltier than I already am, or make me seem like some sort of hero. I'm no hero, that's for sure.

"Go away." I say unwaveringly. I'm shocked by my own tone of voice. Not that I talk often, but not even in my head do I snap at people.

"Twe-" I cut Craig off before he goes on further.

"I said, go away. Are you dense?" I snarl angrily. I don't want anybody's sympathy. I don't want to see Craig.

"Leave him be, Craig." Damien pipes up. I cringe at the coldness in his voice. "I don't want him to strike you with a railroad spike."

I stiffen. I wouldn't even think of hurting Craig! I care an awful lot about him, and when you care so much about somebody, you don't go and hurt them! I wouldn't do that... Right?

"Yeah." I manage bitterly. "Don't want that to happen." I hear Craig and Damien trot off, and sigh.

I check around me to see that there aren't any railroad spikes. When I see neither rust, nor metal of the object, I loosen my shoulders and relax.

"Tweek." A voice hisses in my ear. I turn around slowly, only to see Damien looking at me carefully; as if I'm some porcelain doll that would crumble to bits upon interaction. Ugh. The metaphors.

He doesn't wait for me to answer, but moves on. "You need to run." He says calmly.

"Why?" I mouth, making sure to speak slowly. Damien had gotten sharp at lip-reading so that he'd be able to understand me better.

"Because Craig is afraid of you." Damien says honestly. "The bastard didn't even have the guts to tell you himself. Said he'd call the police and have you taken away."

Tears well up in my wide eyes. Craig wouldn't do that. Never! He said he wasn't afraid of me.

"Where would I go?" I move my lips before my mind can register what I'm saying.

"Far away, Tweek. To scary places." Damien holds my shoulder firmly. His eyes are wide, and I nod.

"Where do I run?" I murmur. I'm surprised Damien even catches it.

"Away, Tweek. And don't look back." He adds, picking me up and shoving me.

So I run. I'm not even sure why I believe Damien. Why I trust him. But I do. And I sprint down the grassy ditch next to the tracks until I'm away. Tears go down my face and fly behind me as I blindly run. Sobs echo in my aching chest, which is odd considering I haven't a clue of ever getting hit there or straining it. If Craig is afraid of me, then I'll run. As far away from him as I can get, so he doesn't ever have to be afraid again.

And I'm _not_ going to look back.


End file.
